XX.
ON THOUGHT.
Clad in a robe of snow, the Earth
Proclaims herself a bride;
But scathing blasts and sounds of dearth
Her nuptial feast deride.
Stripped of the snow her limbs of clay
And wintry breasts lay bared in day.
No bridegroom enters at her gate,
No handmaids are at hand,
So solitary is her state,
The festal hour so grand.
Upon the bridal hearth a fire
As from an altar lifts its spire.
One is at hand who feeds the flame,
And fans it with the hopeless sigh;
While thought consumes without a name,
Though wedded once to one as high.
But mindful of her brighter days
The thought not faithless with her stays.
Made fast to Nature, as a heart
That throbs within her depths concealed,
The thought must still subserve its part,
The sigh, a breath, must be congealed,
And in the inhospitable soil
Be unrequited all their toil.
Once did that thought for Nature live;
Once did that breath to fame aspire!
Shall not their memory revive,
Though black the altar, dead the pyre?
Stripped but of their mortality,
Thus offered up they cannot die.
EPODE.
Is not reality the surest friend?
Its solid hopes and aspirations please,
And to the mental torment put an end:
In it alone the world goes at its ease.
Play with the young, their artlessness retain;
From whence they start a firmer footing gain.
Pass on thy troubles to the curate's care;
His profits have their source in man's mischance.
This life is at the best but meagre fare;
Let sadness not its poverty enhance.
When death itself salutes thee, look away;
If it persists, take all it does in play.
